


doubt

by seriousface



Category: Marvel, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Thor, Ragnarok, i guess, sort of an au where the avengers never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousface/pseuds/seriousface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif finds Loki squatting, possibly strung out on some weird cosmic depressants, claiming to have conquered an abandoned and unfinished fortress in a remote part of Asgard (realm, not city.) This is long after the events of Thor (film), and before The Avengers ever happens. (Perhaps in this weird mash-up it doesn't). Through retrospection and a (more physical than expected) reunion, they retell the story of their relationship and that of Sif's with Thor, while peeking into Loki's motivation in breaking everything and the eventual onset of Ragnarok. Mostly Sif/Loki with mentions of an unhealthy Sif/Thor, and an acknowledgement of cinematic Thor/Jane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Loki's an asshole and is in the midst of planning or preparing for Ragnarok. No one knows how to handle their feelings.
> 
> References toward the end to the story of Sif's hair leading to the creation of Mjolnir, to Loki's use of Sif's body in the future, and of course to the deaths of all our Asgardian sex gods.
> 
> This is about an eternity old. Guh.
> 
> And I really can't be bothered to fix the spacing for the separations, pls pardon.
> 
> I will be super impressed if anyone actually slaves through this.

He regarded her from his position, sprawling on a stolen throne in a blurry celebratory haze. He cracked a halfway smile.

“Please,” he flicked his chin upward, indicating the knife in her hand. Sif dropped the blade into the holster at her hip. He was pretty far gone. The half-lidded smirk stuck on his face, his head lolled back against the gilded throne.

“You’ve come alone,” his tongue crawled out to moisten drug-parched lips. He flicked his eyes from the ceiling to fix her with a sarcastic stare, “miss me?”

“You’re drunk. Or drugged.”

“Oh, thoroughly. I can’t feel my legs, Sif, it’s fantastic.” His gaze wandered the ceiling, returning intermittently to her.

“So?” meaning the others.

“They’re… busy. You’re not that much of a threat, to be honest.”

He chuckled.

“And I suppose you’re here to neutralize me.”

“I suppose.”

She took a step, meaning to confront him more closely, and found herself thrown back by invisible hands,

“Ah—“ his eye was sharp as he sat suddenly the slightest bit more upright, “Stay, Lady Sif. Stay where you are, my mighty woman warrior. I’m not so dim now that I can’t throw you around a bit. But I shouldn’t like to trouble my comfortably paralyzed limbs for trivialities.”

Against her will she remained at the bottom of the steps, watching him. Deconstructed. Melting into the throne. Lucid enough, apparently, to conjure up a tangible phantasm, though too dashed in focus to lend it a visible form.

“Sif,” he slurred, “chat awhile.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Oh, whatever people chat about. News of home,” disinterest paved his tone, “how is Asgard, now?”

“Peaceful. Worried about you.”

The giddy giggle that escaped him was higher than a sober composure would allow, “and Thor, then! How fares my dearest big brother!”

“The same, Loki. He worries about you. He wishes to know you are well.”

“And he implores, I suppose, that I come home.”

“It’s taken him long to make peace with himself that you seem to have no interest in return. He hopes for it, we all do. But he wishes mainly that you are not faced with trouble or misadventure.”

“Hm,” he grasped at the words through his stupor, “so you haven’t come begging for my return. So I am cast out now, and he admits to it.”

“You twist my words! Your brother hopes against hope every day that you’ll have a change of temperament.”

“And the others? And you, Sif? What say you to my exile?”

She hesitated, stone-faced. Loki looked down at her, and she wasn’t sure if his eyes ever saw her, veiled in slumber. They drifted past her, glazed over, closed. He sighed indulgently and lay his head back against the throne again.

“It doesn’t matter. I suppose you’re there to console him in his musings even while you disagree.”

Her neck stiffened, “what’s your meaning?”

“Oh, the same, Sif. Always the same.” Ignorant to her hardened features and sprung fists, his voice trailed off, “like an honest woman comforts her man.”

He shifted, drawing his legs up and curling against the throne with his back toward her.

“Warm his bed, squeeze his hand, kiss him. Let him fuck you when no one is around, whispering into his ear that he’s right, he’s always, always right.”

Tight-lipped, Sif stood her ground at the base of the stairs, eyes boring into his angled back in hatred.

“An honest woman, Sif. I bet you let him suck on you so he feels like less of an imp; I bet you let him mark you so he feels that thrilling excitement of conquest. Like an honest woman, you let him take you any which way, begging for more even while you hate the stink of his sweat, the disgusting mess of stringy seed in your hair, on your back, oozing out between slick thighs. I suppose you promise you love him as he makes those animal noises, grunting and snorting like a pig while he sniffs and licks around your body like a starved hound. Does he leave you bruised, Sif? Does he leave you sore and quivering between the legs, stark red skin where he gripped your breasts, your buttocks? Does he fill you and leave you to his manly slumber while you lay awake at night, promising yourself your pain is insignificant so long as the golden idol of Asgard is satisfied in himself and confident enough to be a worthy king? Do you tell yourself you love him to make it seem like less of a lie?”

“I do love him!” she cried through noiseless tears. Inhaling a whimpering breath, she pressed her hands to her face, willing away the break in countenance.

“No,” he continued lowly, speaking against the back of the throne, “you don’t love him. He ruins you. He thinks only of Jane, and you are nothing but a common whore. Somewhere for him to dump his insecurities and inadequacies. A confessional.”

He listened for several moments to her stunted, uneven gasps echoing throughout the chambers. She was trying so hard to cover them. Had tried so hard to maintain her composure. Her dignity, her respect.

“The greatest woman warrior, reduced to such a state.” He murmured, almost to himself, “a common whore to the greatest coward of them all.”  
  


***  


_“There isn’t a man braver or stronger in all of Asgard,” she said. They were sitting on a wall on the edge of a high pavilion overlooking one sloping side of Asgard’s palisade. The Bifrost lay to their right, the bright orb of a star to their left, setting behind the sea and casting bright glares against the golden buildings far below them. Thor and the rest were nursing sleepy drunkenness over leftover mead, lounging around a table tucked against the wall on the other end of the paved square._

_Sif turned her head and leaned in playfully, “or at least that’s what they _say…_ ”_

_“Right,” Loki’s voice was heavy with the same sarcastic grandeur, “of course they’ve forgotten to consider the _women_ of the realm.”_

_“Yes, naturally,” she said, in the solemnest of tones. The two exchanged pompous contemptuous glances. Loki sniffed authoritatively, Sif pursed her lips. They held each other’s gaze for several moments, and collapsed into laughter. Slow to stifle their outburst, one of the drunk warriors at the table called across the pavilion, “What’s funny, you two? Could use a laugh!”_

_“Aah, nothing,” Loki called back over his shoulder, “drink, same as you, I expect.”_

_“Drink! Us warriors are not so readily touched by drink like such delicate creatures as yourselves!” A ripple of laughter broke out among the others and they retired to their mead once more._

_Loki let his head fall back and closed his eyes against the stars above them. Sif looked into her hands._

_“He really can be a bit of a brute though, can’t he?”_

_“Who, Volstagg? That’s putting it lightly.”_

_“No, your brother.”_

_Loki turned to look at her. She was picking at callouses on her fingers. He looked at his own hands. Bigger than hers. Paler. Differently calloused._

_“Yes, I suppose he can be.”_

_“You disagree with him, don’t you? You don’t like the way he allows himself to be goaded, how he courts conflict.”_

_Loki clenched his hands into fists. His were calloused by nothing but common use, friction from knife hilts, scorching magic. Not like Thor’s. Big, warm, warrior hands. Knuckles packed and fingers sandpapery. His fingertips were singed always by Mjolnir’s lightning, more like a caress to him than an inconvenience. Brutish, maybe. Unafraid. But so frustratingly ignorant of his cause._

_“It’s okay,” Sif went on, reading his silence, “I don’t agree with it either. So…” she sighed. “So reckless. But I suppose that’s what makes him a leader.”_

_“Confidence is contagious.”_

_“Horribly contagious,” she agreed. “It’s idiotic sometimes. Everything is a challenge to him. He plays at taking everything personally in order to earn a fight. It’s impossible to make him stop and think because he’s never lost before.”_

_Loki looked at her sideways, keeping his head down._

_“It’ll come, you know,” she continued, “one day he’ll lose, and he won’t know how to manage it.”_

_“He’ll soon be a grown man. Don’t worry about him.” But every fibre of him shared her frustration._

_“He’s too stubborn to understand. Idiot.”_

_A silence rested between them. Behind them, the voices of the others rose and fell in boasts and drooping recollections. Now and then Thor’s laugh could be picked out from the rest, heavily familiar, lauding itself at being thought of._

_Loki considered his brother. Considered Sif._

_“All the same, you are enamoured with him.”_

_“Enamoured!” She laughed, staring at him, searching his face for a joke. He met her gaze, face unreadable._

_She looked down again, and her jaw flexed, looking for words. Her mouth formed around voiceless syllables, lips dry, tongue thick._

_“It… it’s true. I do… _love_ him,” she allowed, “in some way.” She chanced a look up at Loki again, finding his face unmoving._

_“Well,” she grappled for the words, “it’s not… it’s –“_

_“No, I know.”_

_“No, it’s –“_

_“Sif,” he forced her to look at him, “I understand. I know.”_

_She dropped her gaze. Looked back at the table while he watched her._

_Almost too quiet for her to hear, he hummed, “like winning.”_

_Taking her chin to direct her attention back to himself, he paused a moment, then kissed her._

_Shocking even herself, Sif didn’t resist. She found it harder still to pull away from the second kiss, indulging him instead, against her better judgement._

_But was it really against her judgement? Suspicious as he acted sometimes, there was no argument between them. She trusted Loki more intimately than the others, in emotional matters if not in battle. He wasn’t threatening to her. Not in—_

_“Oh, what have we _here!_ ” Fandral’s sharp, singsong voice split them. “Oh no, carry on, really!” He turned to the others and, gesturing grandiosely, announced to them, “The Lady Sif! Stoops! Stoops to such simple warrior folk as grotesque man!” He turned to face the pair again, “that’s not to say you’re grotesque, darling silver tongue, just a man…”_

_“Huh! Silver tongue indeed,” offered Hogun, and the rest erupted in laughter._

_“Don’t mind them,” Sif said, recalling his attention, “they’re fools, and drunk too.”_

_And Loki, nodding, looked instead past her and at the merry warriors. Thor, too, laughed among them, but to his ear the laugh did not ring so brightly as it had before._  
  


***  


When he awoke, stiff and cramped against the throne, the room felt foreign, the light refracting jarringly against the unfamiliar architecture. His mouth was dry and bitter, mind clearing and pulling at a dream or a hallucination. He inhaled sharply through his nose, twisted out of the static knot to sit on the edge of the throne.

Sif stood where he’d left her, entrapped in an invisible barrier at the bottom of the stairs. He wondered whether she’d slept, how long she’d watched him.

“Want to let me out?”

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of his mouth. He regarded her from this perch: battle hardened and unwavering, but she seemed so tiny. She raised an eyebrow in reiteration of her request.

“Mm,” one hand flicked in her direction, dissolving the invisible wall, “how long was I...?”

“Couldn’t say. Hours. I sat and watched you.” She stepped toward the stairs, testing him. Meeting no resistance, she continued. “You began to rouse yourself maybe a quarter of an hour back. I must say,” she spoke to the steps as she passed over them, “you have some strange half-sleep musings.”

He tensed, darkened eyes demanding elaboration.

“You mentioned me.”

The knot of his hands pressed harder against stiff lips.

“I say strange because you mentioned me in apology. Don’t worry,” she met his piercing glare with a half smirk, “I didn’t take it in earnest. I know you didn’t mean it. I know you don’t subscribe to that sort of dignified manner anymore.”

Standing before him, she cast her eyes downward in a full smile. A smile out of charity. Out of pity.

“I forgive you all the same.”  
***  
 __

_At every turn he watched her watching him. When they fought, when they sat around tables, one-sided glances during ceremonies and across crowded rooms._

_And he watched as his brother failed to return them, failed to recognize them. He watched as his brother shone against the attention of everyone, glowing at recognition and respect surrounding him at every side and meeting him at every angle. So accustomed was Thor to the endless regard that he forgot why it was given._

_No one could convince him the celebration wasn’t for battles won, that it was instead expectation and anticipation of a king as illustrious in rule as in battle. No one could convince him there would come a time that his respect should be earned, not simply deserved._

_No one could convince him that any look upon him was not plain support. It’s not that Thor relished being admired. Rather, he readily assumed that everyone was to him as a friend, excited for his successes, feeling with him the rush of victory._

_He wasn’t entirely wrong – his was exactly the temperament that made an easy leader to follow. Every smile of his inspired the smiles of hundreds of others, every surge into battle spurred into action the forces behind him._

_And yet he failed to realize variance. He failed to realize skepticism where he saw conditional fear. He failed to realize love where he saw regular admiration._

_Doubt – within himself or within others – of the self, of surroundings, of emotions, was foreign to him._

_With the coronation drawing closer year by year, Loki feared what should happen if his brother never discovered doubt._

__  
  


***  


“No one sent you here to subdue me.”

“No.”

“And the others—“

“They don’t know where to find you.”

“And do they know of my actions?”

“No one knows of your actions. I don’t know of your actions. I confess I haven’t been able to understand anything I’ve seen since I’ve found you.”

They strode through the abandoned hall, heading nowhere in particular. The walls were unfinished, forgotten. Minute Asgardian flora lay in trailing bunches along the edges of the hall and into the cracks.

“Was it actually necessary to conquer anyone to take this over?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Right…” they continued, turning into what might have been a banquet hall, had the roof over it ever been finished. “So why the celebration?”

“Wasn’t celebrating.”

“No?”

“No. No army, Sif. No allies. No enemy to share. No purpose, really. Being immortal, or close to it, poses a susceptibility to boredom without purpose.”

The room, though open to the sky, had been furnished somewhat as for dining. A long, thick table stretched along its centre, with low benches on either side. The wood was smooth - whether by make or element was unclear. The furnishings were plain; placeholders. Meant to be temporary.

“Why have you really come, then, if not to halt an imaginary mission?”

They had stopped at the head of the table, and Sif stood for a minute tracing the grain with her fingertips before answering.

“I meant everything I said earlier. We worry. I worry.”

He scoffed at the remark. “Seek comfort then, in each other. I believe I recall having gone over this previously with you.”

Sif pushed away from the table, regarding him with hostility. “You knew those words would hurt me. You knew to rub glass shards in that wound would unravel me.”

Leaning back against the table, he observed her struggling to keep her rage in check. She was leaning over him, mouth terse and eyes wide and fixed with deliberate control. Her hands, hovering at her sides, seemed unable to decide whether to rest or tense for battle.

He watched her searching his face for acknowledgement or sympathy. But he was tired, so tired of sympathy, of sentiment. Slowly he blinked back at her, allowing no change of expression. Her eyebrows pinched in frustration, she moved closer, hooking over him.

“And don’t you forget,” she spat, “that it was you first who taught me what submission is.”

Eyes still fixed to hers, he nodded slowly, questioning, “And are you angry?”

“Angry?” Her voice was low, but forced and tight.

“Let it fall on me, Sif,” his voice was nearly a whisper, “I deserve it. All nine realms know I deserve it.” Her gaze wavered, and she shrunk back the slightest bit, cautious at the advance. “Go on, Sif,” more forcibly this time, “treat me how my brother treats you.”

The words hit her a hundred, a million years away. Her face still fixed in accusatory suspicion, eyes locked to his, she found his tunic twisted in her fingers. Without acknowledgement they skipped over its various trappings, puzzling into buckles and hooking against fastenings. It wasn’t what she knew. Different than Thor’s. Different than…

His hands were on hers, guiding them over the belts and straps. Becoming all too aware of the coolness of his palms, she dodged them, slipping her hands underneath to his chest and he raised his arms so that the garment could be shed. He moved to pull at her laces, but she stopped his hand. Stepped back. Wordless, she pressed him in place with her gaze, moving back several paces.

She’d come fully armed, and the various pieces clattered unceremoniously to the floor at her feet. Boots unbuckled, belts discarded. Two steps brought her knees against his, her feet on the outside. Loki straightened his legs until he was half-perched on the table rather than leaning against it. He pushed himself up to sitting, and Sif, scooting upward, hitched one knee up to rest on the table. Loki took her waist, helping her up, and then she was sitting on his lap, dangerously so, with her arms encircling his neck. She let him go and pulled at the laces and fixings on her bodice. Her breath – eerily calm against Loki’s own shallow inhalations. His hands roamed her lower back, searching for purchase underneath the layers, while she slowly opened to his poring eyes.

Her breasts were at nearly eye level for him, and as she lifted the last layers, a shuddering sigh escaped him at the memory of her body. Not much could scar Aesir skin, and he sought to orient himself by the marks he knew. Here a scar from a battle they’d both seen, here recent indentations from the hardware of her dress. His brow furrowed at seeing unfamiliar markings. How long had it been since they’d been so close? How many battles passed?

He was snapped from his reverie as she rocked her hips against his forcibly, dangerously, creating every unwanted friction between them, clothed as they were. Arms pressed to his chest, she ducked her head, breath hot on his face, lips hovering just over his in a moment of indecision.

“Sif…”

She slipped his movement, kissing his jaw instead. Sif exhaled and the closeness sent a shiver down his neck, the noise in his ear and the smell of her, the smell of her hair everywhere. She kissed him there, below the ear, and pushed him back until he leaned with his elbows on the table so she could plant whispers of kisses down the tendons in his neck, pooling at his collarbone.

There she paused, fingers slipped under the waist of his pants. She moved to roll off of him, meaning to undress them both. Loki’s hand caught her thigh before she could swing off,

“Let me.”

And then the cold shape of his hand was on her, unhindered by leather, by thick canvas. She felt flesh beneath her, as well, as he, too, shed his clothing, his cock hardening against the front of her.

He lay back on the table entirely, raised her hips, hooked his arms playfully under her thighs, urged her forward. When she didn’t respond, Loki curled up momentarily to take hold of her ass and hips, dragging her upward toward him, lips pressed against her stomach and tongue darting out to foreshadow his intention. He lay his head back. Waited for her cunt.

“No,” Sif breathed, her hands closed over his wrists, kneeling over him.

He peered up at her and massaged her hip bones with his thumbs. “No?” He let his hands slip down to her thighs, squeezing the insides and circling coolness in wide bands. “Whatever you like, my lady.”

“No,” she fell back to crouching just over his stomach, “not like this, Loki. I can’t like this.”

“Why?” he searched her face, pleasant but heavy, “Has it been so long, Sif?”

“Not long enough.”

She crawled back until she had to drop her feet to the floor again, leaning over him, licking her lips. She landed a wet kiss at the point of his sternum. Dragged her lip down until she found his bellybutton, pausing to lick and suck in one motion. Her hands, curled in the black hair between his legs, found his cock, his sack. He jerked at the contact, staring down at her. “This isn’t –“

“I don’t want to do what you said. I want the reverse.” Her lips focused briefly over one hip, over the other, right hand shallowly massaging just the base of him. “You take it,” she continued, “out of me. That’s how I want to finish this.”

How could he complain? It’s what he’d wanted even then, wasn’t it? It’s what he’d convinced himself he wanted.

He brought himself up to lean on one arm again, drawing the other to her face, slowly, uncertainly. His progress was jolted in a shiver before he ever touched her, because her mouth was on him, warm and wet and _moving_ licking sucking. Lips parted she licked his slit, paused and her exhalation was cold and sharp on the moisture. Starting at the bottom, she licked in tiny steps up his shaft, it dragging down the side of her nose, and he was acutely aware of it hardening against her. Gripping tight with her hand, she directed the head again into her mouth, circling it with her tongue, grazing ever so lightly with her teeth against the ridge. Tucked into her cheek, so that one side rubbed against her gums and their pink ridges, he fought the urge to squirm against her before she slipped him out, swallowing, squeezing the base of his cock. Settling down again, she began slowly to traverse his length, taking him down to where her lips met her fingers, pulling back. Down again. Up again. Slowly, deliberately, supplementing the motion with twists and pumps by her hand, tugging as an afterthought at his scrotum with the other hand.

Loki supported himself with both elbows, clenching hands into fists to resist bucking his hips upward. He stared down his unevenly fluttering stomach, beading with sweat, at her practiced movements. The slick sheen left by her saliva, the tiny, sweet noise every time her lips pulled over the ridge of his cock, her black hair falling and mixing with his own.

His muscles flexed instinctively, wanting to cant upward, against her firm grip. When suddenly she let go, taking him whole until he could feel the back of her throat, he couldn’t control the awkward thrust, slamming deep into her mouth again. He steeled himself, not wanting to hurt her, and she continued unwavering for several beats, taking him full and deep every time, throat working to accommodate him.

Her eyes flicked upward, appraising his fists, his slack mouth. She slipped off.

The noise rose out of him uncalled, protest at her abandonment, at the cool air biting at his exposed cock.

She crawled onto the table again, and Loki reached around with one hand to push her to straddle him, cock pressed against the warmth of her thigh. She pulled sideways at him and he obliged, welcoming the new position.

He looked down at her. Sif, Lady Sif, spreading her legs on a table. For _him_. He fought himself, knowing he couldn’t last long and hating himself for it. All the same he leaned over her to steal a moment over her neck, shoulders, breasts, licking, kissing, sucking, while one hand kneaded at her pelvic bone, urging warmth and wetness. Almost indiscernible from her elevated breathing, a plea escaped her lips, “mark…” And he did, biting and sucking above her armpit, again beneath the collarbone on the same side.

Unable to sustain further delay, the hand at her cunt moved to spread his beading precum over the head of his cock, then to angle it against her. She twitched, feeling the tip there, and hummed lowly as welcome before he pressed into her. He let her adjust for a moment to his shape, then pulled out gently, and thrust in again.

Leaning over her, listening to the tiny catches and noises in her throat as he moved, he bent his lips to her ear,

“Let me have your body.”

“You—“ her voice caught as he pushed in again, “you already have it.”

“I want you to give it to me to use.”

“I have.”

“Sif,” he spoke urgently against her neck, voice breaking in another mechanical rock against her, “I need to use your body, I need—“ her hand found his face and pushed his lips away,

“Loki, you have it,” she spoke fast and breathy between successive thrusts, “whatever you need, you have it. Me.”

His movement against her elevated, recoiling faster, hitting harder,

“Good,” almost too quiet for her to hear, “I should be very glad at that.”

A noise like the younger sibling of a shout rose and hung in the back of her throat, buzzing through him, gripping him. He ground into her, relishing the thick slap between them, pleased with her wetness, with the secret invisible popping sounds and of Sif’s rising breath.

Her eyes were closed, face flushed. Her breasts, interrupted by every kicking thrust, swelled in little hills upward, downward, blotchy redness where he’d sucked, glistening sweat in drops between them. Her stomach trembled, breath stunted and muscles jerking.

Faster he worked into her, deeper, filling her with himself and visualizing himself spilling out of her. His fingers were lost in her hips, so tight was his grip on them as he pulled her down harder onto himself, begging for every inch.

Her fingers, tangled in his hair jerked suddenly and he could feel her, swelling, breath still for a second before twisting and grinding against him of her own free will, independent of his rhythm, shuddering near her climax and he could feel the silver in his spine, the numbness of his legs. In, and in again, and he could feel her squeezing him as he spilled inside of her, moments after her own release. He continued to pump in and out for several beats, sloppy in the trickling seed.

Having satisfied himself, he pulled out, the table soiled between them. Loki rose to his knees and pulled Sif up to sitting,

“Clean it off.”

She leaned her forehead against the flat of his stomach, inhaling the smell of sweat, of semen. She bent her neck and took his spent cock in her mouth, sucking off the remains and licking up and down his length. When she had finished, she pulled him down to sitting too, and kissed him so he could taste himself on her lips, on her tongue.

How long had it been since she’d kissed him? How many battles had passed?  
  


***  


_The door closed against the echo of the hall and he turned to look across his chambers, leaning back on it._

_He secretly relished these times when she would come to him. Frustrated and raw to the ignorance of his brother – he became the comfort, her solace. Pulling sympathetic faces, he would listen to her indignant abuses upon Thor’s nature, would be the sensitive brother, the compassionate one._

_She paced the floor in the centre of the room, arms crossed tight against her front. To anyone else her shell would be impenetrable, but he could feel her vulnerability. Hard and fiercely elegant on the outside, no one ever cared to really look. Oh, she was masterful at keeping her wits. Her face was readable only when she let it be, her shoulders poised, immovable._

_Her hands, he could read. Clenching just so. Breathing, pulsating._

_“What’s he done this time?”_

_“Oh, I’ve been a fool,” the words, daggers. Loki motioned toward the bed, and she sat on the edge of it. He met her there, and sat on the fur rug, leaning beside her._

_“What have _you_ done, then?”_

_“It’s idiotic.” Her hands rested between her knees. “I tried to… we were just talking.”_

_Loki glanced upward. He could see the flicking of a pulse in her neck, slight and regular._

_“You tried to seduce him.”_

_Her lips tightened but the smile was inescapable, and she ducked her head so that Loki could see it above him. Her eyes were closed at the thought, and something like a chuckle rose in her. Watching her, he became aware of her shoulders shaking, and he lost himself for a second before realizing she was laughing - silently laughing at herself, at Thor, and then he was laughing with her. Gradually their laughs found voices and the two of them shook the bed, convulsing in rushing giggles. Sif had tears in her eyes before they calmed down enough to choke the spasms._

_“The Lady Sif, seductress…”_

_They sat for several moments in silence, and the mood between them grew somber again._

_“Can I not be as worthy to look upon as I am to do battle with?”_

_“Don’t say such foolish things,” he looked up at her again._

_“Dear, Lady Sif,” he butted his head against her knee, resting there, “you are a singular woman. The most feared woman as a great warrior,” he could feel her disappointment, “and the most beautiful lady in Asgard.”_

_“Oh?” her tone was playful again, “Tell me more then, about how singular I am.”_

_“I don’t speak in jest,” he said, rocking his head against her knee again, and her fingers found their way into his hair, “I do mean it. You are remarkable, Sif. You’ve managed to gain the respect of Asgard not through your upbringing or dress or appearance or because you associate yourself with Thor. You’re known as a great warrior. I speak not of glory in battle, but of strength in character. Sif,” he looked up at her, “you could seduce a man by smiling, and any man that can’t be thus bought is in fear of appearing so weak beside a woman.”_

_Sif’s fingers paused in combing through the slow wave of his hair, and continued again after a beat._

_“And beautiful too,” he went on, turning his head to look down her leg. They were casually dressed, she in a long gown, but one he knew her legs were bare beneath. Resisting too intimate a touch, he drew one finger along the slice of skin showing between the hem and the low shoe, “lusted after by many a man if he could hope to have the respect of your attention.”_

_“That silver tongue of yours…”_

_He took hold of her leg and drew it over his shoulder so it hung before him. He raked cool fingertips over her ankle, tracing the contours of the bones, the tendons. “Like silk…” the words drifted from his mouth like smoke, soft, dissolving, filling the air. “Like gold…”_

_She tugged at his hair without realizing it, knotting it between her fingers as she fought herself._

_“You have me, Sif,” his fingers tracing invisible patterns, inching slowly, up her shin, up her calf, “seduce me.”_

_“What?” But she couldn’t help the tickle of interest. Uncurling her fingers, she moved to massage his temple and he turned his lips to her knee, kissing through the fabric. His voice muffled by the folds, he repeated his words._

_“Seduce me. Take me over.” She wanted to protest, but he urged her, “Pretend I’m him.”_

_Sif’s hand stopped moving, “I couldn’t –“_

_He let go of her leg to take her hand, turning it to his face, kissing her palm. “Do.”_

_She considered as he continued,_

_“Make me listen. He doesn’t see you – make me see you.”_

_“You’re right, he doesn’t see me.” She pulled away her hand, her leg, and the absence of her shocked Loki in how much he _noticed_ it, how much he cared._

_She stood from the bed and turned, stepping over him so her legs were on either side of him. He looked up at her and she rested her fingertips on his forehead, cheekbones. Sif leaned over to take his shoulders, and lowered herself slowly until she rested against him, pinning him between the floor and the bed._

_“Can you see me?” Her breath was on his face, her words crowding him. Loki’s hands were pushing through the draped fabric, trying to find her skin underneath it all, and she let go of his shoulders to pull his hands away. Holding one wrist in each hand, she pressed them against the bed behind him. Loki’s eyes were questioning, and she said nothing. Squeezing his wrists where they were as an instruction to stay, her fingers skittered across his front and settled between his legs, between hers._

_Through the fabric of his pants she kneaded against him, digging in with her palms. He moved to hold her, and she grabbed at his groin sharply, freezing him, eyes punishing. His brow wrinkled and it was a moment before she loosened her grip, before he could exhale._

_“ _He_ wouldn’t listen,” she said._

_“Fight hi—“ her hand was on his mouth,_

_“Don’t talk.”_

_Keeping his mouth covered, Sif continued with the other hand to work him, feeling the shape of him as he grew hard for her. She ducked her head against his shoulder so she could see what she was doing, tugging at the front of his pants. She found the fastenings to loosen them, and pulled him out. Her movements stopped as she took a moment to inspect him, familiarizing herself with his length, his girth. Light fingertips tapped and dragged over his shaft, feeling the shape, pulling with childlike curiosity at the skin._

_Then without warning she inhaled again and bit down through his shirt. Loki stifled an exclamation and Sif’s hand clamped harder over his mouth. She moved against him, pulling him down to the rug. Her hands were on either side of his ribs as she hovered over him, and he watched her, intrigued by her, frightened of her despite himself._

_One hand darted under her dress for the space of a second, and then took hold of him again as she aligned herself._

_“Wait—”_

_She shot a warning look at him and he grabbed hold of her arm before she could move, “Have you ever…?”_

_A look of understanding passed over her face as she recognized his concern. Loki let go of her arm and brought his hands together._

_Pulling from nothing a small vial, he emptied its contents into one hand and, glancing upward for her permission, spread the fluid thickly over himself. Sif worked her fingers into the slick covering, following his movements and working it over every bit of exposed skin._

_Then, resuming control, she brought the head against herself again. Beat. And she swallowed a yelp as she speared herself on him. Loki peered up at her, trying to chase shock from her face, at her chest dipping with sharp exhalations._

_Sif tried to think through the understanding of their position, the screaming warmth between her legs. Him. Inside her. _Inside._ Bigger than slick fingers. Stretching her, beating against her. Alive. There was a sharp, ticking, painful twinge around him, filling her mind with the vision of him there, between her legs._

_Somewhere buried under the folds and mounting layers of her dress, there pulsated the intertwining of _them.__

_Sif raised herself, feeling the movement inside her. She sat back again, and in the quiet of the room they could both hear the wet noise of it, muffled by her dress._

_Finding herself, now, Sif opened her eyes and the look of them was enough to trigger faint flickers of alarm in Loki; challenging zeal like provocation. Like the face his brother wore to battle – fervor for conquest, craving for triumph._

_Her hands crushing his chest, she found a regular rhythm of bearing down on him. She trapped his hands before he could claw into her thighs, her hips, pinning them instead to the floor and leaning over him. Sif supplemented her rolling movement with fingers clawed against his wrists, teeth scratching and biting against his open neck, collarbones. Loki dared not speak for fear of her biting harder, enjoying instead the focused presence, the immensity of her. She was everywhere around him, her heat, the smell of her, her fingernails biting into him, her hair finding his neck, the muscles in her shoulders taut, then slack, then taut again as she swelled over him._

_Sif’s movements became rougher and faster as her prurience mounted, and the minute bucking of Loki’s hips narrowly echoed her own._

_Of course he’d asked to be taken advantage of, but the look of her indulgence still seemed foreign to him. Her creativity was understandably limited, but the intent at satisfaction was impressive._

_Writhing against him, her heaving rhythm lost its regularity. Her skin was buzzing underneath the dress, needles pricking into her lower back and down her thighs. She twisted against him, and the movement sent a missed and welcome flooding of attention to his cock._

_Sif pursued the shimmering irregularity of the sensation, chasing and pulling at the tease of orgasm. Her movements were instinctive; animalistic in purpose and at the same time girlish in satisfaction. Her voice dipped in and out of her breath as she worked over him._

_A cold shiver rose from her, and she clenched tight around him as she broke her climax, riding it out in a succession of restful thrusts._

_Loki was thankful for the continued movement, as it was enough to coax a flat crescendo from himself, and he weakly spilled at last against one of her thighs._

_She climbed off of him and, after taking a moment to find stability in her legs, she stood over him. Sif considered her body, searched for differences in feeling. She was keenly aware of the whispering trickle between her legs, the sticky white of his seed crawling between her thighs. She bundled up her dresses around her, feeling momentarily dirty. Below her, Loki had sat up, tucking himself haphazardly back into his pants, and leaned again against the bed. He didn’t immediately look up at her, and she didn’t move toward him._

_His eye found her eventually, clutching thick folds of fabric in front of herself._

_“Are you… do you want to clean up? Should I—“_

_“No,” her voice was young and sudden. She lurched away from him. Dropping her dress, she continued in a more familiar, straight tone, “I need to go. I will… see you another time.” She hesitated, “Another time, Loki.”_

_And she stole from his chambers, returning in secret, in quiet, to her own or to bathe._

__  
  


***  


They lay side by side on the table, wordless, close but not close enough to touch. They hadn’t bothered with clothing, and both ignored the dry film of semen or saliva that crackled at every movement.

It wasn’t love or comfort so much as familiarity, abandon. They were careless because they didn’t care.

The sky above them curled in wisps, faintly glimmering where the ghosts of stars boasted proximity.

“I’m sorry about all those times.”

A dry rasp of a laugh curled from Loki’s throat in answer. “How many times did you leave me there?”

Countless times she’d appeared, fucking him to her own release, and left for him to finish by himself. The memory disturbed her.

“You weren’t fucking _me_ , Sif. There’s nothing to atone for.”

“I used you, all those times. For so long.”

_And now you’re paying for it._

“You know I never stopped preening before him. Right up until…”

Loki clenched his teeth. _You mean right up until I ruined everything._

“But then,” she went on, “he has Jane now. In his heart, at least.”

Of course she could never ask different treatment of Thor. Not after the years she’d spent with him in mind as she spilled herself over another. The first time had shocked her, though. Once she realized what was happening, she’d expected the same glazed-over look, peering through her, as she’d been guilty of.

“He isn’t like that with me. Not… what you said before. He’s gentle. He says my name.”

“Not a pig?”

“No,” but the word caught in her throat, coming out as an unimpressive gurgle. Sif shut her eyes, and the realization burned, _that was me you were describing…_

Her breaths were even, forcibly so. Without looking Loki knew there were tears trickling into her ears.

It was good that Jane had appeared when she did, when Thor’s guard was down. When he couldn’t lift Mjolnir, when he thought Odin was dead. It was good that she’d been there when he felt doubt. Loki hadn’t counted on that. He remembered being pleased at Thor’s impassioned response at the mention of her name. Pity that he crushed Bifrost anyway. That was the problem with love – one began to believe it could transcend all manner of barriers.

A chill began to settle, and he looked over at Sif, wondering if her pure Aesir form would be bothered.

So much had changed in that short interval. So much discovered.

“Why did you do it?”

Do…? The coronation? And every slipping stone of the avalanche that followed?

“I was terrified,” he admitted. He hadn’t meant to destroy the prospect of Thor’s coronation – merely to delay it. He didn’t want the throne at the start, his brother was too well suited for it both in confidence and appeal. Foolishly he had hoped Thor would have amended his overconfidence by the time his coronation came around, and foolishly he had acted in jest to try and put it off.

“I was naïve enough to bring up defying Odin,” he said, “naïve enough to think that would stop him.”

He’d almost pulled them out of Jotunheim, even after realizing the evidence of his lineage. Almost. Until Thor couldn’t walk away from a jeer remembering a role he’d hoped to forget despite the victory that came of it.

What else was there? From then on it was improvisation. In his youth, he’d found alienation reason enough to discard the ties to Asgard. They’d cheated him, had planned on using him. It was the greatest humiliation.

And every rebellion was a step further from ever coming back. He found it infuriating how Thor could bother to see it still as a possibility.

“Do you regret his banishment?”

Loki didn’t answer. His father’s rage had terrified him, silenced him. Such passion at the punishment of his brother, and no acknowledgement as to his own remaining presence as the second son of Odin. Of course by then the name sounded twisted even to himself.

“Is he a good leader now?” he tested her, “Is he a good king of Asgard?”

Sif didn’t have to say anything. They both knew the answer. Casting herself back into a distant memory, a smile Loki couldn’t see pulled at her lips. Making her voice thick with nostalgic irony, she answered him anyway, “That’s what they _say…_ ”

It sounded wrong after so much time, a girl’s words on the lips of a hardened hero, but this time the words themselves rang true enough.

She tried to maintain the moment of lightness, “I suppose after Jane I never will be able to take him the way you took me.”

Loki’s earlier words came back to him. How little they seemed to suspect of him. Loki wasn’t finished with Asgard, not nearly. He was apathetic, but cursed with that same sentiment he so despised. It was poetic, really, the vision he had. To return to that forge, to challenge Thor with his own weapon in a prescribed, inevitable battle.

He considered the circular nature of it all – here lay beside him the woman whose hair it was that had forced him into that tricky wager in the first place. And Mjolnir borne of it.

It thrilled him. A writhing excitement welled beneath his skin, and the comfort of chaos burned out some of the weak, sentimental apathy that had so long been a struggle. How he relished puzzling others with conflict. Purported friends, enemies, it didn’t much matter.

“Did you mean what you said?” he ventured, excited by the distraction of planned subterfuge, “About giving your body to me?”

Sif scoffed in confusion at the question, unsure whether to laugh or profess unearned promises in reassurance. He didn’t give her a chance to answer.

“I think we are all going to die very soon.” The words should have been heavy, but he spoke them through an irrational smile. The tone of his voice was unsettling, the words refusing to dissipate.

Sif turned her head to look for an explanation in his features – the first movement since they began the conversation – but his eyes were closed, expression peaceful, and the moment was gone.


End file.
